The Belt Cities could survive without the help of Earth, and the
Supreme Congress of the United Nations of Earth knew it. But they
also knew that "survive" did not by any means have the same semantic
or factual content as "live comfortably". If Earth were to vanish
overnight, the people of the Belt would live, but they would be
seriously handicapped. On the other hand, the people of Earth could
survive--as they had for millennia--without the Belt Cities, and while
doing without Belt imports might be painful, it would by no means be
deadly.
But both the Belt Cities and the Earth knew that the destruction of
one would mean the collapse of the other as a civilization.
Earth needed iron. Belt iron was cheap. The big iron deposits of Earth
were worked out, and the metal had been widely scattered. The removal
of the asteroids as a cheap source would mean that iron would become
prohibitively expensive. Without cheap iron, Earth's civilization
would have to undergo a painfully drastic change--a collapse and
regeneration.
But the Belt Cities were handicapped by the fact that they had had as
yet neither the time nor the resources to manufacture anything but
absolute necessities. Cloth, for example, was imported from Earth. A
society that is still busy struggling for the bare necessities--such
as manufacturing its own air--has no time to build the huge looms
necessary to weave cloth ... or to make clothes, except on a minor
scale. Food? You can have hydroponic gardens on an asteroid, but
raising beef cattle, even on Ceres, was difficult. Eventually,
perhaps, but not yet.
The Belt Cities were populated by pioneers who still had not given up
the luxuries of civilization. Their one weakness was that they had
their cake and were happily eating it, too.
Not that Harry Morgan didn't realize that fact. A Belt man is, above
all, a realist, in that he must, of necessity, understand the Laws of
the Universe and deal with them. Or die.
Commodore Sir Harry Morgan was well aware of the stir he had created
in the lobby of the Grand Central Hotel. Word would leak out, and he
knew it. The scene had been created for just that purpose.
"_Grasshopper sittin' on a railroad track,
Singin' polly-wolly-doodle-alla-day!
A-pickin' his teeth with a carpet tack,
Singin' polly-wolly-doodle-alla-day!_"
He sang with gusto as the elevator lifted him up to the seventy-fourth
floor of the Grand Central Hotel. The other passengers in the car did
not look at him directly; they cast sidelong glances.
_This guy_, they seemed to think in unison, _is a nut. We will pay no
attention to him, since he probably does not really exist. Even if he
does, we will pay no attention in the hope that he will go away._
On the seventy-fourth floor, he _did_ go away, heading for his room.
He keyed open the door and strolled over to the phone, where a message
had already been dropped into the receiver slot. He picked it up and
read it.
COMMODORE SIR HARRY MORGAN, RM. 7426, GCH: REQUEST YOU CALL
EDWAY TARNHORST, REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE OF GREATER LOS
ANGELES, SUPREME CONGRESS. PUNCH 33-981-762-044 COLLECT.
"How news travels," Harry Morgan thought to himself. He tapped out the
number on the keyboard of the phone and waited for the panel to light
up. When it did, it showed a man in his middle fifties with a lean,
ascetic face and graying hair, which gave him a look of saintly
wisdom.
* * * * *
"Mr. Tarnhorst?" Morgan asked pleasantly.
"Yes. Commodore Morgan?" The voice was smooth and precise.
"At your service, Mr. Tarnhorst. You asked me to call."
"Yes. What is the purpose of your visit to Earth, commodore?" The
question was quick, decisive, and firm.
Harry Morgan kept his affability. "That's none of your business, Mr.
Tarnhorst."
Tarnhorst's face didn't change. "Perhaps your superiors haven't told
you, but--and I can only disclose this on a sealed circuit--I am in
sympathy with the Belt Cities. I have been out there twice and have
learned to appreciate the vigor and worth of the Belt people. I am on
your side, commodore, in so far as it does not compromise my position.
My record shows that I have fought for the rights of the Belt Cities
on the floor of the Supreme Congress. Have you been informed of that
fact?"
"I have," said Harry Morgan. "And that is precisely why it is none of
your business. The less you know, Mr. Tarnhorst, the safer you will
be. I am not here as a representative of any of the City governments.
I am not here as a representative of any of the Belt Corporations. I
am completely on my own, without official backing. You have shown
yourself to be sympathetic towards us in the past. We have no desire
to hurt you. Therefore I advise that you either keep your nose out of
my business or actively work against me. You cannot protect yourself
otherwise."
Edward Tarnhorst was an Earthman, but he was not stupid. He had
managed to put himself in a position of power in the Welfare World,
and he knew how to handle that power. It took him exactly two seconds
to make his decision.
"You misunderstand me, commodore," he said coldly. "I asked what I
asked because I desire information. The People's Government is trying
to solve the murder of Commodore Jack Latrobe. Assuming, of course,
that it was murder--which is open to doubt. His body was found three
days ago in Fort Tryon Park, up on the north end of Manhattan Island.
He had apparently jumped off one of the old stone bridges up there and
fell ninety feet to his death. On the other hand, it is possible that,
not being used to the effects of a field of point nine eight Standard
gees, he did not realize that the fall would be deadly, and
accidentally killed himself. He was alone in the park at night, as far
as we can tell. It has been ascertained definitely that no
representative of the People's Manufacturing Corporation Number 873
was with him at the time. Nor, so far as we can discover, was anyone
else. I asked you to call because I wanted to know if you had any
information for us. There was no other reason."
"I haven't seen Jack since he left Juno," Morgan said evenly. "I don't
know why he came to Earth, and I know nothing else."
"Then I see no further need for conversation," Tarnhorst said. "Thank
you for your assistance, Commodore Morgan. If Earth's Government needs
you again, you will be notified if you gain any further information,
you may call this number. Thank you again. Good-by."
The screen went blank.
* * * * *
_How much of this is a trap?_ Morgan thought.
There was no way of knowing at this point. Morgan knew that Jack
Latrobe had neither committed suicide nor died accidentally, and
Tarnhorst had told him as much. Tarnhorst was still friendly, but he
had taken the hint and got himself out of danger. There had been one
very important piece of information. The denial that any
representative of PMC 873 had been involved. PMC 873 was a
manufacturer of biological products--one of the several corporations
that Latrobe had been empowered to discuss business with when he had
been sent to Earth by the Belt Corporations Council. Tarnhorst would
not have mentioned them negatively unless he intended to imply a
positive hint. Obviously. Almost too obviously.
Well?
Harry Morgan punched for Information, got it, got a number, and
punched that.
"People's Manufacturing Corporation Ey-yut Seven Tha-ree," said a
recorded voice. "Your desire, pu-leeze?"
"This is Commodore Jack Latrobe," Morgan said gently. "I'm getting
tired of this place, and if you don't let me out I will blow the whole
place to Kingdom Come. Good bye-eye-eye."
He hung up without waiting for an answer.
Then he looked around the hotel suite he had rented. It was an
expensive one--very expensive. It consisted of an outer room--a
"sitting room" as it might have been called two centuries before--and
a bedroom. Plus a bathroom.
Harry Morgan, a piratical smile on his face, opened the bathroom door
and left it that way. Then he went into the bedroom. His luggage had
already been delivered by the lift tube, and was sitting on the floor.
He put both suitcases on the bed, where they would be in plain sight
from the sitting room. Then he made certain preparations for invaders.
He left the door between the sitting room and the bedroom open and
left the suite.
Fifteen minutes later, he was walking down 42nd Street toward Sixth
Avenue. On his left was the ancient Public Library Building. In the
middle of the block, somebody shoved something hard into his left
kidney and said. "Keep walking, commodore. But do what you're told."
Harry Morgan obeyed, with an utterly happy smile on his lips.